


What's Opera, Doc?

by Nikkalia



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston RPF
Genre: Gen, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27046648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikkalia/pseuds/Nikkalia
Summary: Inspired by a Facebook post that migrated to a conversation that perked someone up from a bout of mourning a certain demi-god.All fluff, no regrets.If you haven’t seen the referenced cartoon, shame on you. Looney Tunes is required reading on this archive!





	What's Opera, Doc?

The smell of bacon frying drags me from sleep. I yawn, secretly enjoying the extra space to stretch. I certainly don’t mind sharing a bed with my overgrown ginger from Wimbledon, but damned if he isn’t a walking furnace who’s exceedingly snuggly in his sleep. Somewhere in my haze, I hear the Looney Tunes theme and smile. He’s watching my Bugs Bunny collection again. **  
**

I quietly pad out to the kitchen where I find Tom standing in the doorway, his back to me. He’s singing along with Elmer Fudd’s spear and magic helmet, speech impediments included. It’s all I can do to stifle a laugh. He turns back to the kitchen and I duck into the spare bath, not wanting to interrupt his revelry. Especially when the singing resumes.

“Oh Bwunhildwa, you’re so wovewy. Yes, I know it. I can’t hellllllllllllllllllp it. Oh Bwunhildwa, beEEEE my wuuuuuuvvv.”

I’m dying. Both hands cover my mouth to keep from bursting into hysterics while I double over in silent giggles. A small curse followed by renewed sizzling escapes the kitchen. I poke my head out into the hallway and wait for any follow up noises. Bobby spots me and comes bounding over.

“Shh,” I whisper, offering scritches for silence, “silly pupper. You’ll give me away.”

“Weeeeturrrrrn, my wwuuuuuv. A wonging burns deeep insssiiiiiide meeeeee.” Long fingers slide down my cheek.

Busted.

Tom pulls me into his arms, dancing us back into the living room. “Wuv wike ours must beeeeeee….”

“Made for you and for meeeeeeee…” Oh gods, now I’m singing too.

“Weeeeetttuuuurrrnnn. Won’t you weeeturn my wuv? For my wuuuuuuvvvvvv is yoooouuurrrsssss!”

Our duet is ended with that ear-to-ear grin that makes women around the internet melt. I’m giggling uncontrollably.

“Must you waff at such a sincere prwofession of wuv?”

My master of impressions is trying so hard to contain his joy, but that was the final straw. Laughter erupts from both of us as he wraps those unrealistically long arms around me and we stand there until the giggles die down. I lean up to give the silly boy a kiss.

“Does that mean I don’t get to play with your spear and magic helmet later?”

Insta-Hiddlesblush for the win.

“The spear, maybe. You remember what happened the last time the magic helmet came out?”

“What, you mean the weird bruises I had for a week?” More laughter and kisses. As hot as a fully armored Loki was, lovemaking minus the horns was decidedly safer. Apparently Tom was enjoying the memory as much as I was, judging by the depth of our kiss and his body grinding against mine.

“Babe?” I gasped, his mouth working its way down my neck.  
  
“Hmm?”

“What’s burning?”

“My wuv for you,” he growled, nipping at my skin.

“You dork, I’m serious.” His head snapped up, eyes dark with offended passion. “Weren’t you cooking…”

“The bacon!” He dashed into the kitchen. “Shit. So much for the full English. And this skillet.”

“Eh, we can probably salvage the skillet. That, on the other hand,” he shot me a wounded look, turning on the tap and quenching the smoke, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Tom sighed. We both stood over the sink, mourning the sad remains of the breakfast starter.

“So,” I snake my arms around his waist, “why don’t we grab a shower and go get lunch?”

“Lunch?” He turns around, quirking an eyebrow. “How long is this shower going to take?”

“Depends on how long it takes to polish your spear.”

“You’re obsessed with my spear.” he purrs, sliding past me into the hall.

“Would you rather I refer to it as the wascially wabbit?”

“Huh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh.”

I step out of the kitchen just in time to see his gym shorts fall to the floor, a wink and a grin tossed over his shoulder.


End file.
